


Run, Run, Lost Boy

by CeruleanMusings



Series: With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Wept [3]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Crisis of Faith, Gen, Punishment, Water Torture, Water punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanMusings/pseuds/CeruleanMusings
Summary: His torn up back was a shrine to his failures, his mistakes, his oversights; lessons that needed to be learned. And what lesson was he to gleam from this, he wondered. That he was wrong? How could that be?
Series: With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Wept [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840252
Comments: 11
Kudos: 90





	Run, Run, Lost Boy

**Author's Note:**

> As you could probably tell by the title, this was partially inspired by the song _Lost Boy_ by Ruth B.

The moon sitting high above cast blue-clad beams on the pool of water below. A waterfall rolled nearby, rippling the surface of the water. It lapped over the smooth rocks near the base, brushed up against the shore, and rocked against the shivering stomach of the Weeping Monk.

He pressed forward, taking long strides towards the center. The cold seeped in through the surface of his bare dotted skin, clinging to his bones, but still he continued. His slow stride kicked up loose silt from the bottom, covering the bed of smooth, small, rounded rocks beneath his feet. Save for one, jutting up and striking him on the arch of his foot.

A grunt of pain burst from his mouth as he staggered, falling to one knee. The water surged upwards, licking against the open wounds on his back. His shaky breaths became stuttered, labored and stings of pain raced from bottom to tip of his wounds. Growing in intensity with every hit of water only to fade a second later, pulsing, breathing.

The Weeping Monk, balancing on one knee, one hand braced among the upturned one, nails digging into the bone, spat. A thick glob of saliva, tinged a muddy brown, pierced the water surface. His stomach clenched and eased much like the water around him. A red tint encircled him, the sticky blood loosening from the skin of his back. New wounds added to his collection.

His torn up back was a shrine to his failures, his mistakes, his oversights; lessons that needed to be learned. And what lesson was he to gleam from this, he wondered. That he was wrong? How could that be? From his youth Father Carden spoke with such authority, such reverence, always pushing him to be on the right path. The _only_ path. The path towards forgiveness and acceptance and release for being marked by a demon. For being a sinner in His eyes.

How could that be wrong; his quest for forgiveness, to be rid of his sins? If he were to live a long life, a life in His will, he had to do what was asked. And all He asked was for His followers to support Him, raise Him. They would be better off. Those that opposed were to be shown the error of their ways. And he, the Weeping Monk, was the only one strong enough to deliver their reckoning.

The Weeping Monk knew what it felt to be without—back when he was Lancelot—and when the option to be better off came, when Father Carden came and rescued him and gave him the tools to repent, it was a blessing. He was marked, living with a spirit of a demon that he didn’t know how to conceal. One that put a target on his back and allowed his strength, his control, to slip through his fingers. And only when he basked in His light did that strength return. He had a path, he had a purpose.

And now—

Now….

The Weeping Monk lifted an arm to his head, brushing his long, slender fingers against the lone, scared mark on the back of his head. His cool fingers traced the cross on the back of his head. He remembered the day he received such a mark, when he gave himself over, willingly, fully, to His Grace and Father Carden. He closed his eyes and breathed through the pain as he was held and shaved and marked. The first steps towards his freedom, throwing a heavy weight around his ankles, being dragged along under Father Carden’s teachings.

He gripped the frayed end of rope wrapped in his hair and, with a few tugs, pulled it free. Tension released and his hair fell down to his shoulders, light against the breeze, and covered the mark on his head. He dragged his fingers through it, briefly ensnaring, and dragged out twigs and leaves and blood residue.

Scenes flickered before his eyes: bodies slumped against carriages, burning bodies strung up on stakes, blood pooling on the ground, the earth drinking it up, arrows embedded in backs and necks, swords slicing through limbs, necks snapping like brittle twigs. And blood, so much blood…

Dipping his hands in the water, he cupped them and brought it up to his face. He washed away the dried blood, the dirt and the grime stuck to his face and blew out, spraying droplets. He rubbed water on his face again and again, scrubbing, dragging his nails against his skin, deepening the red on the marks beneath his eyes.

He tipped forward, shifting his weight to his toes, and submerged. The sound around him muffled, shifting to a thick bubbling in his ears. The pounding from the waterfall circulated nearby and blades of water flora brushed against his outstretched limbs. His vision blurred in the darkened, murky water; he closed his eyes, water pressing all around him, taking weight off him, combing through his hair…

_He strains, teeth clenched, neck muscles bulging as he tries to lift his head. The grip on him is too tight, too strong. His heart beats rapidly in his chest. Blood rushes in his ears. Pressure presses down on his head, pushes against him. His arms flail, trying to keep himself up and wrench the hand off his head._

_Fingers curl within his hair, gripping the shafts, knuckles press against the back of his skull, holding tight. A groan settles in his chest, shoots up his throat and slams against his clenched teeth. His stomach clenches, lungs burn, aches for air, hungers for it._

_The world shifts. He’s yanked backwards and he gasps for air, water streams in rivulets down his face. His hair hangs flat to his forehead, matted and waterlogged, and his cheeks, a ruddy red, huff and puff as he feeds his lungs and settles back on his heels._ Help, please help… _The sky, an inky solid black, stretches on above._

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he gasps. His lips vibrate as he splutters, ridding his mouth of water. His legs itch to inch away but Father holds on tight. “I won’t…I won’t do it again! I’ll be good!”_

_“See to it that you are,” Father says. Father’s grip tightens and he gasps at the jolt of pain, having to swallow the sound a second later when he plunges forward, submerged once more._

The Weeping Monk’s eyes shoot open and he blinked. The illuminated water around him had dimmed, turning into a vast expanse of darkness. And then something silvery reached out towards him, stretching, beckoning. It came into focus and he eyed five fingers, a hand, stretching back to a delicate wrist, a full arm, a ghostly pale face with blank, rounded eyes…

He burst through the surface of the water with a deep, shuddering gasp, filling his lungs. He ran his hand against his face, brushing water away, eyes swinging from side to side to find… _her._ That girl. The one he’d been tasked to find, to hunt, to eliminate. But no one was there. The only thing staring back at him was his ripped, broken, and rippled reflection.

_Wait._

Staring at the glassy surface, he lifted his hand and touched the wound by his eyebrow. Or, he could have if the wound was there. Instead his skin sat untouched, as if it had been stitched together and wiped clean. He rubbed his hands on his face, searching for more marks only to come up empty. He searched the rest of his skin, for bruises and welts and rips and tears the Trinity Guard had bestowed upon him and came up empty. He’d healed. He’d _healed_.

His lips parted, trembling, due to the cold or the rising swell within him he didn’t know. Much like he didn’t know how it was _possible_ for him to have healed. That ability…it’d been taken away from him years ago; buried beneath anything and everything that could make him weak and then broken and locked away. Never to be touched unless he wanted to suffer.

But hadn’t he suffered anyway? So what was the point?

_Please, Lord, show me something._

Something stirred in him, an uncomfortable shifting deep in the pit of his body. His attention lingered on it, only for a minute, when the piercing voice of Squirrel shot through the darkness—“Did you drown?”—with certain impatience (and not without a tinge of embedded hope, the monk noted.)

He dragged a wet hand through his waterlogged hair, squeezing the curled ends, muttering beneath his breath and turned, heading for the shore. As he walked, he gathered his hair up, tying it back with a few deft flicks of his wrist. Droplets of water ran down his back, over the raised aged welts littering his skin. The water pulled at his legs when he reached the shore. He grabbed his forgotten clothes, stepping into his trousers. As he shook out his shirt, he looked back at the water that lay still, like glass, despite the waterfall plunging at the end. His head cocked to the side, a hum rumbling behind his closed lips.

A swath of star-speckled sky lay out like a rug by his feet. Tilting his head back, he caught the tail end of a shooting star screaming by. And, for the first time in years, his heart lifted, free of weight.

He could breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm on tumblr](https://ceruleanmusings.tumblr.com) if anyone wants to gush about the Weeping Monk with me. I won't be over this show for a while (which means we need a season 2, universe!) I'm also open to prompts and inquiries over there as well. Edit: This is now also posted on Fanfiction.net


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